


Our Drunk Kitchen

by japansace



Series: We Write Victuuri Prompts [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Youtubers, Chef Katsuki Yuuri, Fluff, M/M, Model Victor Nikiforov, Social Media, Youtuber Katsuki Yuuri, Youtuber Victor Nikiforov, it's all fluff you guys IT'S ALL FLUFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 23:48:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14436813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/japansace/pseuds/japansace
Summary: Youtubers Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki have a joint Youtube account: Our Drunk Kitchen. Yuuri's a chef, and Victor is pretty definitively not. What could go wrong?





	Our Drunk Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crossroadswrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadswrite/gifts).



> Based off crossroadswrite's wonderful series "Welcome to Yuuri's Kitchen," I made a little spin-off (which is, in turn, based off Hannah Hart's amazing series "My Drunk Kitchen.") Please enjoy!

[video description: A bunch of quick cuts of a very sleek and stylish kitchen. It gets progressively messier with each cut, and its host, the illustrious Victor Nikiforov, accordingly becomes less and less put-together. First there’s a subtle flush to his face, then his hair falls out of its precarious hold, feathering into his eyes, and with each time-skip, his clothes get more and more disheveled.

Meanwhile, Victor’s saying things out of context, as they are a bunch of handpicked quotes from the video spliced together to demonstrate the devolvement into chaos.

“I need to say something,” the Victor from the first cut announces, uber-serious as he leans on his elbows over the counter, an array of ingredients set before him.

The next features him holding a bottle of wine at a distance, the same passionate glint in his eye as he often displays when staring at his husband. “I want you, and I know you want me too.”

The following looks to be when someone walks into the set seemingly without prompt, Victor licking the spatula in the corner of the room as though he hadn’t expected company. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he claims, though he doesn’t relinquish his hold on the spatula.

Then the cut after that touts a flustered-looking Yuuri Katsuki, appearing to be salvaging whatever mess Victor has created during his time in the kitchen. Despite having something akin to a shit-eating grin on his face, Victor bemoans, “I don’t think I can forgive you for this.”

The final cut has Victor waving a towel—somewhat frantically—over the food he’s preparing, a smoke that could perhaps be mistaken for steam wafting from the final product. “In my defense,” he says, sweating a bit, smiling wryly, “I didn’t think it would be that flammable.”

The intro finally rolls, the title card declaring the video another installment of “Our Drunk Kitchen,” and Victor’s back to his stylish self, the apparent anarchy of the opening scenes having not yet played out.

“Hello, everyone!” Victor greets, bright-eyed and cheery. “Welcome back to Our Drunk Kitchen.”

“My,” someone corrects from out-of-shot.

Victor looks up from the counter. “Hm?”

“My,” the person repeats. “My Drunk Kitchen. You’re on your own for this. You told me not to help unless you’re desperate.”

Victor groans, spilling over the counter as though daintily setting himself upon a fainting couch. “And when did I say such things?” he demands, a hand thrown over his forehead. “Have I come hate myself? Why would I ban my lovely husband from his domain?”

Yuuri snorts.

“Well—“ Victor straightens, sending Yuuri a wink. “—I’ll try my best. No doubt, though, I’ll need my knight in shining armor to come save me at some point.”

“Just try not to burn the place down,” Yuuri says—or pleads, rather.

“No promises~!” Victor lilts with practiced elegance. He looks at the camera again, his stage presence taking over once more. “So this week, you guys voted for crème brûlée, which I love but have never attempted to make in my life. So it should be fun!” His head pitches to the side, expression a bit strained. “Is it hard, Yuuri? Crème brûlée?”

“Mm…” Yuuri considers. “Not really. Not until the last step, anyway.”

“What’s the last step?”

“It involves that torch I’ve put in front of you.”

“Oh? This one?” Victor lifts the torch from the neat arrangement before him and taps down on the button. A blue flame erupts from the nozzle; Victor’s eyes nearly sparkle at this. “Wow~!”

“Ah—!” Yuuri appears on-camera, harried as he removes Victor’s finger from the trigger. “Please be careful! In fact, I should do it when the time comes. It might be safer, especially when you’ve—“

“Relax, _Yuuri_ ,” Victor tuts. “I’m an adult. I can handle this.”

Yuuri regards his husband—then the camera—warily. “All right…” he murmurs, retreating to his corner.

Victor casts him one last reassuring smile before he returns his attention to the front. “Right. Then let’s get started.” He opens a bottle of wine, pours himself a generous glass, then swirls it as he surveys the instructions. “M’hm, m’hm, m—“ His eyebrows pinch. “’Ramekin’? Am I saying that correctly? What on earth is a ramekin?”

“It’s a special bowl just for crème brûlée,” Yuuri answers.

“Do we own those?”

“Yes, I’ve laid some before you.”

“Ah.” Victor sighs, positively enamored, as he samples the wine. “My husband, always taking care of me.”

(It can’t be confirmed, but Yuuri’s telling silence speaks of a heavy blush.)

“So then—“ Victor puts down the glass. His top buttons have been artfully left open, and there’s a hint of a choking sound from stage right as he leans over the marble countertop. “—before we begin, I need to say something.” With a tilt of the head and a finger to his lips, he stage whispers, “If this goes horribly wrong, you can’t tell anybody, okay? It’ll be our little secret.”

The video softly cuts then to Victor wrestling open a bag of flour. The only other difference between the cuts is that the wine glass is now noticeably empty. “What’s first, my sous chef?”

The wrinkling of paper accompanies Yuuri’s voice: “The heavy cream and—Victor, what are you doing?”

Victor stops—but not before the flour bursts open, dusting Victor’s face in a layer of fine powder. “Flour…?” he phrases like a question, blinking innocuously as though he hasn’t been nearly doused with it.

“There’s no flour in this.”

“No flour?”

“No flour.”

“Wow~!” Victor takes it in stride, wiping the flour from his jaw and neck with a tea towel. Somehow, it still manages to look suave. “I thought there was flour in everything.”

“So—“ More paper crinkling. “—did you preheat the oven?”

“Yep!” Victor confirms the popping open of another bottle of wine. “Ah,” he says to it, “I want you, and I know you want me too.”

“Victor, focus!”

“Yes, yes,” he murmurs between sips. “Okay, so heavy cream.”

“Yes, you’ll need that and the vanilla bean.”

Victor pushes them apart from the other ingredients. “And then?”

“You need to boil the cream in a saucepan with scraped vanilla bean for fifteen minutes.”

“Well, then I better start with the vanilla, shouldn’t I?”

There’s a brief montage in which Victor washes his hands, rolls up his sleeves, and begins scraping the vanilla bean against a grater. “Like this, Yuuri?” Victor asks, though his suggestive eyebrow quirk lets on that he knows just how well he’s doing as he wipes an imaginary bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm.

“Yeah…” Yuuri sounds a bit winded. “Just like that.”

When the cream and vanilla are prepared and well on their way to a boil, Victor starts with the other component: whisking eggs and sugar together. “How does it look, Yuuri?” Victor inquires oh-so innocently, adding the cream mixture when they’ve cut to the appropriate time.

“Looks good,” Yuuri says, unusually quiet, contrite—even for Yuuri.

Victor pours the mix into the ramekins, where it will sit halfway in boiling water while it bakes. “Then we wait for approximately forty minutes,” Victor narrates as he slides the pan onto the baking tray. “So—“ He shoots Yuuri a coquettish look over his shoulder. “—what are you going to do with me for forty minutes?”

Another cut follows this—one which was painstakingly designed to appear normal but is tellingly different, judging by how Victor’s hair is tousled, the shirt collar unbuttoned one button more than before, the sleeves unrolled, wrinkled.

Victor enters the scene like that, his quiet smile transforming into an expression of fatherly disapproval when he spies Makkachin propped up against the counter, tongue lolling above the pan that hosts the remnants of the cream base. “Makkachin McFluffins Katsuki-Nikiforov, you get away from that right now!”

“His middle name is ‘McFluffins’?” Yuuri calls from somewhere far in the apartment.

“Well not if you’re gonna say it like _that_!”

He shoos Makkachin, then takes the spatula that was leaning against the bowl and licks some of the cream off.

“Really?” Yuuri questions from much closer, just barely off-screen.

Victor flinches, clutching the spatula to his chest. “This isn't what it looks like.”

“Victor, that’s, like, pure sugar.”

Victor puts his hands on his hips, spatula tucked against his side. “Oh, like I haven’t caught you twenty times exactly like this in the middle of the night.”

Instead of answering, Yuuri strides into shot, then casually rubs the cream off the side of Victor’s lips with his thumb and eats it himself. “Yes, but I properly dispose of the evidence,” Yuuri claims even as Victor’s face goes tellingly red.

There’s another cut there, unfortunately; and then Victor’s holding up the baking tray to the camera. “Our crème brûlée is nearly complete!” He lowers it, swinging it a bit in his arms. “This is the boring part, though. It needs to refrigerate for another two hours.”

“We can take the dogs for a walk,” Yuuri’s voice suggests.

“But I have to keep drinking for the show!” Victor insists. “It’s part of the _brand_.”

“Vodka’s clear for a reason,” Yuuri tells him, appearing in-shot with brandished water bottles.

“I love you,” Victor says, more genuine than he has any right to be.

There’s a time-lapse of the kitchen as Yuuri and Victor are out for their walk, the sun slowly bleeding into the low-hanging clouds, the sky turning crimson, then a soft violet and periwinkle blue. Yuuri and Victor return halfway through, unleashing the dogs; they congregate around the refrigerator, as though they know there’s a forbidden treat in there, waiting to be devoured. Yuuri lightly shoos them away with dog-appropriate treats for their troubles while Victor checks the camera angles.

“Done!” Victor announces, the time-lapse coming to an abrupt halt as he holds the pan of crème brûlées before him. “Well,” he says, wry, “not quite. Now is the exciting part everyone’s surely been looking forward to.”

“I have the fire extinguisher on standby.” It’s impossible to tell from Yuuri’s tone whether this is a joke or not.

“Oh, have a little more faith in me, my love.” Victor goes to place the dessert down on the counter—only to miss the mark by a couple of inches, the pan wobbling on the precipice.

“I have faith in _you_ ,” Yuuri cuts in physically as well as verbally, pushing the food into safety. He motions a little “stay” with his hands, as though the pan will adhere to his wishes. “I have less faith in your ability with a blowtorch—especially right now, when you’re drunk.”

“Undermining me on my own show?” Victor poses, though his telling smirk gives him away. “I don’t think I can forgive you for this.”

Yuuri gives him a look that’s equal parts exasperated and fond.

Another cut has Victor poised above the desserts, torch in hand. “I’m just going to lightly braise it,” he assures the audience. At this point, the frame freezes, then zooms in on his innocuous face, the overlaid text proclaiming, “THIS WOULD PROVE TO BE A HUGE MISTAKE.”

Victor taps the trigger, slowly running it along the tops of the treats. The first few go well—and it’s at this exact moment you can see the cocky little glint in his eye. “See, Yuuri?” he says, holding the torch in place above one of the cups a bit too long. “I told you I could—“

“Victor, it’s burning!”

“It’s—? _Shit_ —“ Victor cuts off the flame just in time for Yuuri to throw a dishrag over the fire, smothering it out. Yuuri pats it a few times more for good measure before cutting Victor with a glare.

“In my defense,” Victor says, a spacy smile pulling at the corner of his lips, “I didn’t think it would be that flammable.”

Yuuri sighs. “Would you like me to do the rest?”

“Would you?”

“Yes, if you promise not to start another fire.”

Victor pops open another bottle of champagne. “It’s a deal!”

As Yuuri puts on the finishing touches in the background, Victor speaks in the foreground, addressing the audience. He uses the wine glass in his hand to better illustrate his points, swinging it around as he postulates, “You know, there’s a lesson in everything. In everything… you can find a lesson.”

“Sure,” Yuuri chimes, non-committal.

“The crème brûlée I scorched is prooobbbaaabbblllyyy gonna look terrible.”

Yuuri snorts.

“But!” The champagne sloshes. “But it’ll probably taste great still! So that’s the lesson for today, kids: Things that are not pretty on the outside are often pretty on the inside.”

“It’s the heart that counts.”

“Exactly! Even ugly things can be delicious.”

“Uh—“

“So eat your husbands no matter what!”

“What—?”

“Did I not say that right? I’m losing my English.”

“Vic—“

“Eat _out_ your husbands!”

“ _Victor_ —!”

“What?”

“We’re fixing that in post.”

“Whaaaaat?” Victor drapes himself over Yuuri as the latter sets aside the torch. “Come on, _Yuuuuri_.”

Yuuri sighs, defeated, and nudges the pan in Victor’s direction. “The crème brûlées are finished.”

Victor’s attention is immediately stolen, looking over the golden brown—and lightly charred—treats with a look of wonder. “Wow, amazing~!”

Yuuri dips a spoon into one of the prettier ones and brings it up to Victor’s lips, a stray hand held out to catch crumbs. “Taste test?” he suggests, soft and shy, a primrose blush playing at the tops of his cheeks.

Victor looks besotted. “ _Yes_ ,” he breathes and captures the bite.

His face lights up enough to eclipse the sun, an enthused “Vkusno!” making it around the dessert. “Yuuri, this is amazing!”

“Well—“ The blush intensifies, a blush within a blush. “—you’re the one who did most of the work. So good job.”

Victor hugs Yuuri around the middle, leaning in to rest his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. “Thank you, love.”

Thus commences the tailing outro of plugs, previous episodes, “be sure to like, comment, and subscribe!”s. It’s sweeter than sugar—sweeter than crème brûlée—as the video closes on Yuuri and Victor exchanging a fond look, a look that promises a thousand more videos to come.]

**My Drunk Kitchen: Crème BrûStay By My Side and Never Leave**

victuuri

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_Posted 10/05/2016_

**Author's Note:**

> ~~I wrote half of this drunk, and I'm not even sorry. ~~~~~~
> 
>  
> 
> Edit: It has come to my attention that some of you would like a link to the actual My Drunk Kitchen, so here's [a playlist of the entire series up to date](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vq7G-Q9ZwC0&list=PLCFfJBxAh8f64miX2GTh_IpECFru-WUa4).


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